Between Two Points
by Anonymoustache
Summary: After Mary dies in a horrific car crash, John is inconsolable. Sherlock does everything he can to comfort him. However, John finds out something truly awful about the death of his wife, and he's not sure if he can ever trust Sherlock again. Can the two friends ever mend their bond? And what really happened the night that Mary died?
1. Let Her Go

_A/N; I promised myself, the moment concert season is over I will give all my lovely followers a new story in honor of season 3 (which I have seen and have fallen completely head over heels in love with)._

_I had my last concert this morning (during which I sang Silent Night, screeched along to Ode To Joy on the violin, and fell backwards into a potted plant), and here it is! :3_

_This entire story is dedicated to my dearest Sherlock ADD buddy. The angst, the sadness, the hurt and the comfort…it's all for you, Rainy. WASHED-UP FANGIRLS FOREVER._

_Also, I just want to point out for clarification purposes, I love Mary Morstan. I think she's a superb character who really adds a lot to the storyline of Sherlock, and she's played by a wonderful actress, namely Amanda Abbington. The only reason Mary is killed in this story is that I wanted to deal with a very cracked John falling in love with a very broken Sherlock. This is not a story of Mary hatred, it's a bittersweet story about loss, love, and forgiveness._

_Hope you enjoy! Remember, every time you review, Mycroft gets a piece of cake ;)_

_Ta,_

_Anonymoustache_

* * *

"I'm sorry, Dr. Watson…there was nothing we could do."

_Mary…_

John looked around, eyes wild, tears staining his cheeks. "No…" he murmured, "Not Mary…"

"I'm so sorry, sir…"

John pushed past the doctor and staggered towards the surgery room, moaning.

"No, sir…please…"

John shoved the door open and stumbled into the room towards his wife's corpse.

"Mary…God, no…"

"Sir, please…"

"Maaaary…"

John held tightly to the body, resisting the doctor's insistent tugs on his shirt.

Suddenly, a pair of slender, warm hands gently grasped John's forearms, slowly prying his fingers from Mary's still-warm corpse.

"John…come on, John, it's okay…"

John's hands dropped reluctantly and he sagged backwards into the arms that waited there.

"Mary…" he murmured as the person led him to the door. The doctors pulled the sheet over Mary's battered, blood-covered face

"I know, John, I know," a soft baritone whispered softly in his ear, supporting him as his knees gave out

"Let her go."

* * *

John's eyes fluttered open slowly, lashes sticking together like glue.

He was lying on the couch in 221b. Sherlock was sitting at his desk nearby, typing away on his laptop, a cup of cold tea in front of him.

Everything looked so normal.

But everything had changed.

Sherlock looked over as John sat up and shut his laptop abruptly, turning to face his friend.

"John," he said, concern written all over his face. "How are you feeling?"

John rubbed his face with the palm of his hand and ran his fingers through his hair.

"Not all that great," he said quietly.

"John…"

Sherlock looked at John, pain evident in the detective's eyes.

"I'm sorry."

Sherlock bowed his head, hands clenched together.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there, I'm sorry I couldn't save her, I'm just…so sorry, John. If there had been any way to save Mary, rest assured I would have done it immediately."

John felt a single tear slip from his eye, sliding down his cheek to rest at the corner of his mouth. He spread his lips ever so slightly and tasted the salty water on the tip of his tongue.

John abruptly stood up and walked towards the door to the flat.

"I think I need some air."

He pulled on his favorite brown and pulled the collar up to hide the tears that were running fast down his face now.

"Don't wait up."

* * *

Sherlock watched as John walked down the sidewalk, limping slightly, collar turned up against the rain that dripped from the eaves above Baker Street as night began to fall.

He turned away from the window and sat down in his chair, staring at nothing.

_I'm so sorry, John._

_I wish I could change everything._

* * *

John walked blindly around, not sure where he was going or even where he was. All he knew was cold and wind and wet, black and grey and coldly shining stars up in the sky.

Eventually, he found himself at the corner of Fifth and Gower.

_This is where it happened._

_This is where she died._

John looked at the point where the two streets met, a single spot that looked so innocent despite what had occurred there just hours before.

_This is where my life fell apart, with a single collision of fate._

John slid down the alley wall, coming to rest beside the garbage cans, rain still pouring down over his still figure.

The tears began again. John wondered if they had ever actually stopped.

_Mary…_

_I miss you already._

* * *

"John?"

John looked up from his lowly seat in the alleyway to see Greg Lestrade standing in front of him, a worried look on his face.

"You okay, mate?"

John looked back down at the ground and gave a slight shake of his head.

Greg crouched down next to him, looking at the doctor with concern. "John? What's wrong?"

"Mary…" John whispered. "She…"

He looked up at Greg.

"She's dead."

What scared Greg the most was the emptiness in his eyes.

* * *

"Here…you might want these."

Greg offered John a blanket and a steaming cup of tea. John took both gratefully, wrapping the afghan tightly around his shoulders and taking the cup of tea with slightly shaky hands.

Greg shucked off his coat, throwing it with abandon onto a nearby coffee table, and sat down in an armchair across from John. He folded his hands and looked at John, meeting the doctor's eyes with an intense look.

"So what happened?"

John sipped his tea carefully, as though he was afraid it would disappear any minute. After a few minutes of silence, he finally answered.

"Car crash. This afternoon. Mary's cab collided with another car on…on the street corner where you found me," John said, voice breaking at Mary's name. He took a deep breath. "She…didn't make it."

"I'm so sorry, John," Greg said sadly. He looked down at the floor. "Mary was a good woman. She'll be missed by all of us."

"I just…I can't believe it," John said, voice wavering. "She was there this morning…she kissed me goodbye before I left for work. And then I got home and I got the call…"

Greg nodded and looked towards the rain dripping down the windowpanes, then stopped, frowning. He turned to John. "Did you say that the crash occurred on the street I found you on?"

John nodded slowly, taking a sip of his tea. "What were you doing there, anyways?" John asked, voice still thick with emotion.

Greg's eyes went wide. "John…Oh, my god. Oh my god…that was the crash that the warning mentioned…"

John frowned. "What?"

Greg leapt up from his chair and grabbed his coat off the table, pulling an extra coat off the hook and throwing it to John. "Put that on. We need to go to Scotland Yard. _Now_."

"What? Why?" John asked, setting down his tea and standing up to pull on the coat.

Greg turned back from the door to face John, eyes severe.

"I have a sinking suspicion. And I really hope I'm wrong."


	2. I Don't Know

"So what are we doing at Scotland Yard at midnight?"

Greg moved a stack of papers onto his chair and booted up his computer, turning to John. "Earlier today, we were working on a case about a hit-and-run rogue who's been killing people all over London," he said, signing in and, opening a folder marked as Evidence, pulled up a copy of an email. He moved to the side a bit to allow John to read it.

_Today, at precisely five pm, there will be another hit and run at the corner of Fifth and Gower._

John's mouth fell open slightly. "But…that…that was Mary, that got hit."

"There was no signature on the email, and it was sent from an anonymous source," Greg said.

"You couldn't trace it?" John asked.

Greg shook his head.

John stared at the email that had foretold his wife's death and rubbed his forehead, grief still lingering there at the front of his mind.

"Why didn't you check this out?" John asked harshly, turning to Greg. "How could you just _ignore_ a warning like this?"

"We didn't ignore it!" Greg exclaimed, "We…"

"You didn't take it seriously," John said coldly.

"No, John, that's not it, we…"

John's eyes blazed angrily, glimmering slightly in the dim office light. "My wife died today, and you're telling me you had the information to prevent it," he said in a deadly quiet voice. "This is your job, to prevent this kind of thing if it's in your power, and it most certainly was, judging by this." His voice raised with every syllable.

"Why is Mary dead?"

"John, we _did_ take it seriously. We put our very best man on it," Greg said.

"Oh, yeah?" John said sarcastically, voice shaking, "And who's that?"

Greg paused.

"Sherlock."

John stopped cold.

He collapsed backwards into a chair behind him, hands shaking. All the life seemed to have left him suddenly as Greg tried to explain.

"Sherlock was really interested in the case, right from the start…needed someone to watch the corner and we were going to send Dimmock, but Sherlock insisted…isn't his fault, John, I don't even think he made it there in time…"

John gripped the arms of the chair tightly, knuckles turning white.

"John?"

He looked up to see Greg staring at him uneasily.

"I…I can't believe it," John said hoarsely, looking down at the floor as his vision wavered slightly from shock, "He…he could have done something. He could have saved her…but he wasn't there. He wasn't _there_."

John looked up at Greg again, eyes full of immeasurable pain. "Did…did he even take it seriously? Did he even _care_?"

Greg said nothing, though his gaze betrayed his thoughts. He turned back and shut off the computer, not even bothering to close the folder.

"Why?" John asked in a way that said he didn't expect an answer. "Why did he do that? Why didn't he go?"

Greg sighed and pushed the stack of papers back onto his desk, resting his elbows on it and putting his head in his hands.

"I don't know, John."

"I don't know."

Silence filled the office.

* * *

Sherlock watched as the moon shined coldly into the windows of 221b Baker Street, rain dripping down the window panes.

He didn't know what to do.

At first, he had thought about going to Lestrade; explaining what had happened, why Mary had died…

But then he had realized exactly how bad it would sound.

He could never tell another human being, not ever.

Not even John.

_Especially_ not John.

John could never find out what he had done. It would ruin whatever was left of the friendship the two men had.

_I can't ever confide in John, not now. He'd kill me._

Sherlock swallowed heavily.

_Just like I killed her._

* * *

"Hang on…did you ever catch the bastard who did it?" John asked, breaking the silence.

Greg shook his head. "Of course not. That was…" he trailed off suddenly, eyes widening.

"That was what?" John asked, sitting up straighter.

Greg turned to him, a strange look on his face. "Sherlock's job," he said quietly. "You don't think…"

John raised an eyebrow inquisitively, then, as he realized what Greg was implying, shook his head vehemently, giving the inspector an incredulous look. "You can't seriously think that Sherlock _killed_ her."

"No, maybe not," Greg said, but his eyes still looked thoughtful.

John shifted his legs, which were beginning to fall asleep. "Greg, you know Sherlock. He'd never kill anyone on purpose, especially not someone who was close to him."

"But was she? Close to him, I mean?" Greg asked skeptically.

"I don't know…I suppose," John said. He shook his head and leaned forward, clasping his hands together in anxiety. "But we shouldn't even think about it, because it _would never have been him_."

"I know you love Sherlock, John," Greg said, then held up a hand as John began to interrupt, "No, you do…platonically, I mean. But you have to look at all the facts before you draw a conclusion. That's part of a police officer's position…you can't eliminate someone as a suspect just because they're your friend."

"But Sherlock…" John said desperately.

"I know, John, I know, it's hard. But we have to entertain the possibility that it _may_ have been him."

"With Sherlock Holmes, you never know."

* * *

Sherlock pulled off his suit jacket and carefully folded it, setting it on the bathroom counter.

_A shower will help to clear my senses. Then I can decide what to do._

He turned on the water and went back to the counter, leaning over to look at himself in the mirror. His skin was pale, as always…too pale, mummy had once said.

"You look like a ghost, Sherlock," she had told him, ruffling his curls fondly.

_I feel like a ghost, too._

Sherlock rucked up his shirt over his head and put it down beside the folded jacket. His ribs were a veritable canvas of deep purple and yellow bruises, blossoming up across his chest, dusky pink nipples blending in perfectly with the dark bruises and cuts. One long slice crossed from the edge of his left collarbone down to just below his right nipple, slowly oozing blood in a thin trail down his skin.

**_You deserve this._**

**_You killed her._**

**_You're a monster._**

_Shut up_, Sherlock thought as the voices began to invade his head again. _Shut up. That's not true, it's not true._

**_It is. And you know it._**

**_You killed her, Sherlock._**

"No…no, I didn't…" Sherlock whispered, horrified.

**_You did._**

**_You killed Mary Watson._**

Sherlock screamed at the top of his lungs, smashing his fist into the mirror above the sink, breaking it into a million pieces.

The detective collapsed onto the floor, bloody hands shaking violently as he began to rock back and forth.

"No…it wasn't me…it couldn't have been…" he whispered, glass tinkling onto the floor around him, shattered bits of mirror embedded in his palm.

**_Yes, it was._**

**_You killed her._**

**_And you'll never be the same again._**


End file.
